


Golden Glow

by pickwicklingpapers



Series: black eyes, golden glow [2]
Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Britchell, F/M, Hospitals, I'm Sorry, M/M, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Season/Series 02, Welcome to Bristol Bear, Wow, and the teddy bear, expect people dying, it's what I do best, maybe thor? i like thor, more character will probably be added, pain and misery, pina coladas, sorry - Freeform, trying not to give the plot away in the tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2174868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickwicklingpapers/pseuds/pickwicklingpapers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a month since Anders left Bristol, and that's all it's taken for his life to hit rock bottom. Sequel to Black Eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It must be Thursday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Yesterday, I ate ice cream and watched Kevin Bacon illegally dancing. Today, I am going to school in the summer holidays. What an exciting life. But here I am posting this, waiting for my writing attempts to fall as low as my GSCE grades probably will be.  
> Well, here it is. The next fic. If anyone has a title for it, I would be very grateful because I am stuck. This chapter title is, of course, a nice little HHGTTG reference. And it is a Thursday (I never could get the hang of Thursdays), so bonus points for Briggs.  
> Good luck to anyone who is collecting or has received their results today - only two more years of compulsory education! In the meantime (and for anyone who isn't)...enjoy :)

Anders rested his head on the glass worktop and let out a long, deep breath. His hands hung off the edge of the desk, flailing in the empty air. Usually this luxury was forbidden to him due to the piles of paperwork that Dawn had dutifully filled out, sat on his desk, waiting for a signature that his wonderful PA would probably end up forging. But there was a copious lack of aforementioned paperwork. Good for Anders, not so good for JPR.

He groaned. He could tell that it had been a terrible and boring day when he started consciously complimenting Dawn. Yeah, sure, he loved her and he was grateful and all, he just made a point never to let himself acknowledge it. He had a reputation to maintain.

A reputation that did not, unfortunately, extend to the rest of his professional life. Because he didn’t _have_ a professional life. He’d returned from his little trip to find that every single one of his clients had ditched him. And it was kind of hard to use Bragi when no one would answer his calls. Not that he didn’t blame them – he had been missing for months – and he didn’t blame Dawn either. It was no one’s fault but his. He couldn’t even blame his fucking family – it wasn’t like he put up much of a fight. Useless Anders, doing what he was told, when he was told. He hated himself, but, like the brainless moron he was, he was too much of a coward to do anything about it.

His outstretched fingers brushed something soft. His brow furrowed, confused. There was nothing in front of his desk. What the fuck…?

“Anders.” A stern voice broke his reverie. “Anders. That’s my thigh you’re groping.”

Anders looked up blearily. Dawn loomed before him, eyebrow raised. “Oh, um, sorry.” He muttered, sitting up. He rubbed his eyes, peering up at her.

Her face softened. “Anders, are you okay?” she asked, concern obvious in her voice. “You look terrible.”

Anders knew. He’d stopped looking in mirrors, incapable of seeing the gaunt face and purple bags under his eyes anymore. He had no appetite anymore, didn’t consume anything that wasn’t liquid. There was nothing left that was important in his life. _He_ wasn’t important.

“I’m fine,” he said, forcing on a smile. He sat up properly, stretching.”Well, look at the time. You’re good to lock up, yeah?” He grabbed his jacket and strode out the door, flashing her his trademark grin. The moment he was out of the door, he sagged. He’d have to work harder if Dawn was noticing. That, or let her go. It wasn’t like he could pay her for much longer, anyway.

He turned, fumbling in his pocket for his car keys. He walked towards his car, loosening his tie. He was bone-dead, tired, didn’t care about anything, even his dead-again mother. Yeah, he’d been bothered when they were all under the threat of death-by-Axl-dying, but now he kind of wondered if it was worth them all living. He wasn’t suicidal – god no, he loved drink and sex _way_ too much for that – but he just didn’t really see the point any more. He’d even lost interest in his fish; he hadn’t fed them in days. Absentmindedly, he wondered if they were okay. He hoped they were still alive.

Mentally shaking himself, he beeped the car open, dropping his briefcase into the passenger seat. He walked around to the driver’s side, humming to himself. He’d go home, get plastered, maybe pick up some girl. The usual.

Distantly, he could hear someone running down the road behind him. Loud, noisy running, feet slapping the pavement at every step. Not the nice kind like Ty did, swerving to avoid everyone and apologising every ten paces. _What a prick_ , Anders thought, mentally berating the runner. _Just because you want exercise doesn’t mean you should inflict yourself on others. I like my paunch just fine, thank you._ He heard a cut off shout (“And-!”), then tyres squealing and got a moment of vicious satisfaction before the screaming began.

Shit. The fucking runner must have been hit. Kind of served him right, but Anders wasn’t a completely heartless bitch. No, that prize went to Michele. He turned, phone out, 111 ready to dial. No way was he going anywhere near the blood, but he’d do his bit.

His heart dropped as he saw the body lying motionless on the pavement. A gloved hand lay on the tarmac, uncovered fingers stretching towards the god. Black hair was strewn across a pale face, brown eyes closed.

Anders’ legs were carrying forward before his brain had even registered the movement. His vision tunnelled, honing in on the prone form of his vampire. But it couldn’t be him – Mitchell was ten thousand miles away on the other side of the world, not lying unconscious and broken in the middle of an Auckland road.

A small crowd had gathered. Anders staggered over and gazed down at Mitchell’s body, phone forgotten. A bystander tried to push him away, but he shoved back feebly, collapsing to his knees. Shock was beginning to set in, the utter absurdity of the situation making itself known. For Mitchell to come all this way, just to fail at the last moment.

“He’s my friend. He’s my friend…Please…Please let me just…Jesus. No. God, no…” the words arrived in Anders’ ears as if from another mouth. He reached for the body, vaguely noticing someone leading him away to sit down on the kerb. Feeling dizzy and sick, he crouched with his head between his knees, breathing deep. The cotton wool in his brain began to clear, senses returning, just in time to hear the fateful words.

“There’s no…I can’t find a pulse.”

Anders wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, if you have a fic title, please tell me because the best anyone has suggested (yeah, I mean you, Tiri) was 'cry' or 'the party pooper'.  
> 


	2. Just Your Typical Auckland God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitchell reaches New Zealand. Hospitals, cars, and guerrilla tea-stealing tactics are involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, hey. This would have happened a lot sooner but I got a new laptop and Word took a while to sort itself out. And then I had a few hospital appointments, and we got GCSE results so I didn’t feel like working (sorry), then I got a job that takes up the majority of the weekend, and schools’ started, and Doctor Who is on Saturday nights and I don’t love Britchell enough to miss that. Oh, and Bake Off. Bake Off is happening.   
> Bake Off is very important to me.  
> Bit of a filler chapter, but I think the main message can be summed up by ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’.

Mitchell lay for a second, the hum of muffled traffic broken only by the occasionally footstep. Slowly, he opened his eyes, gradually focusing on the cracked ceiling above. It was funny, he mused, how every hospital had the same ceiling tiles and same mysterious stain. And the same coloured corridors, too. He mentally shook himself – he was rambling, probably still drugged up. Or concussed. That was possible too. He ran through the events of the day, trying to figure out how his life had taken such a left turn.

* * *

* * *

Fed up with his moping, Annie and George staged an intervention. He was slouched on the sofa, mug in hand, watching Real Hustle. They purposely blocked the television, arms crossed, faces set. He’d been unresponsive, blinking owlishly at their legs, until Annie had grabbed his tea.

“Hey!” he sat up sharply, looking angrily from one to the other, a crime of such magnitude enough to rouse his from his stupor. “Give me my fucking tea back! And move the fuck out of the way.”

“No.” Annie replied, sitting decisively on the armrest. George switched off the television and moved to sit next to the vampire. He sighed.

“Look, Mitch. We…well, we think that…it’s just that…”

“We think you’re being a bloody moron and that you need to buck up and go and see the guy.” Annie broke in.

“Um, yeah.” George concluded, “Basically that.”

“So here’s your choice. You book some tickets and actually take a chance…” Annie said, holding up the laptop.

“Or you clean the entire house every week for six months.” George finished, holding up Mitchell’s least favourite pair of Marigolds.

“Fine.” He’d grumbled, grabbing the computer and wrenching it open. In the next half hour, he’d tracked down the only PR company owned by a Johnson in New Zealand – some shoddy place called JPR - booked a last minute flight to Auckland and a taxi to the airport. Annie and George were waiting at the door.

“Now you take care,” said Annie, sniffing. She handed him his bag. “I’ve packed our clothes and a few of your favourite books. Your wallets in there, and I’ve put in a flask of tea.” She looked at him, façade shattering. “Be careful, won’t you Mitchell? If it doesn’t work out….you come straight back, do you hear me? And if it does – and I really hope it does – you stay. You stay and you make the best of your life. Skype us, call us. Once a week, once a month, I don’t care. Just let me know you’re safe.”

Mitchel stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. “I will.” he promised, resting his cheek on her shoulder. “I’ll try.”

She sniffed and released him, running her hand down his arm one last time. He squeezed her hand and stepped over to George. “I’ll miss you, mate.”

“I’ll miss you too.” The werewolf replied, pulling him in to a quick hug. “Keep us updated, let us know how it goes. And check out exchange rates at the airport – get the best deal you can.”

Mitchell smiled at George’s ever present practicality. He picked up the bag and stepped towards the door. He looked back at the little house one last time. He felt lighter – like a weight had been lifted.

“Thank you.” he said, beaming. “Thank you very, _very_ much.”

* * *

26 hours later saw him in a street outside an airport, blinking at the sun. So this was Auckland. Looked nice, but Mitchell had admittedly spent the majority of his life in small Irish towns, various war trenches, and Bristol, so he was no judge.

He clutched his duffel in one hand. He hadn’t brought much, just hand luggage. There hadn’t really been time, and besides, when you were as old as he was, you learnt not to get attached to things. Hey tended to fade and die. And it wasn’t like he was planning on staying. Chances were, Anders wouldn’t even remember who he was, let alone want him. No, Mitchell would probably just have to suffer through a really awkward encounter, and then have to scrounge the funds for another flight back.

He hailed a cab, and gave it the address of a cheap hotel he’d found on the internet. He wanted to drop his stuff off before he went and found Anders; no sense in freaking the god out with luggage. He wasn’t here to stay, just to see If there actually were any options.

Twenty minutes later, he was strolling through the city centre, searching for the business. After a few false turns and a couple of misguided directions, he’d finally found the correct road. His internal monologue of worry and self-loathing stopped dead as he saw a familiar blond step out of an office up the road.

The sight of Anders’ instantly recognisable features less than two hundred yard away caused Mitchell to screech to a halt, waiting for his brain to kick in. When it did, all the doubt that had earlier plagued him just melted away. This was right. This was where he was supposed to be.

Almost by instinct, his legs started moving, until suddenly he was running, running faster than he had since he’d run for his life in a French forest. Anders was turning away, was getting in his car. Mitchell couldn’t let that happen. Not after all they’d been through, after all their missed opportunities. He’d just arrived, for christ’s sake!

He put on an extra spurt of speed as Anders opened a car door, a scream ripping from his throat.

_Anders_

The squeal of brakes hit him suddenly, as did the car. He rolled his head, vision blurring as he spotted the lithe figure in a clean cut business suit running towards him. His eyes closed with one last thought.

_Anders_

* * *

* * *

“You're lucky I came, you know." said a familiar voice from the corner.  
  
Mitchell turned to see the blurry image resolve into a short, slim silhouette of a man, framed by a window.   
  
"I really fucking hate hospitals." Anders turned, glass in hand, the other shoved in his pocket.   
  
Mitchell's brain stuttered. "Nice timing." He managed to utter, mind running at a million miles an hour, trying to piece together the parts of the puzzle. Was it really Anders? Had he actually found him? And the god was here. In a hospital. With sick people. Was there actually hope that this could work?  
  
"Hmm?” the god asked. “Oh, no," Anders said with a smirk. "I've just been saying it every five minutes for the past half hour in an attempt to look cool. And may I just add," he said, a roguish smile sweeping across his face, "you look like shit."  
  
"Wow. Meet the god of poetry." Mitchell snarked back. "Ever the charmer."  
  
Anders walked forwards and placed his glass on the vampire's bedside table. "Yeah, well. So, dramatic reunion aside, I'd ask you how life's going, but you're currently in a hospital bed, so." He cleared his throat and pointed at the table "That's your water, by the way. They said you should drink it. I just felt I deserved it more."  
  
"Oh yeah?" Said Mitchell, cocking an eyebrow.   
  
"Yeah. Look at me - I'm in an honest to god hospital and everything." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "There's sick people here, Mitch. _Sick people_.”

The god took a step back. “I have to say, of all the people I expected to see today, you weren’t one of them. My dick brothers, maybe. Dawn, definitely. You? Never.” He shook his head and shoved his hands back in his pockets.

Mitchell pushed himself upwards ignoring the shoots of pain through his body. He grimaced and wordlessly reached for the bedside chair where his coat lay.

“I had to come find you.” He said, withdrawing a small object from its pocket. “It wasn’t the same. I had to get out or it would have killed me. I realised that on the way here. George and Annie made me go.” He handed the object to the other man. “I had to come and find you.”

Anders stared down as the Welcome to Bristol bear lying in his palm, wide smile and garish sign so out of place in a hospital. “I wondered where this had gone.” He said, stroking it softly. “I guessed I must have lost it when I left.” He stopped and looked up. “Mitchell, I-“

The door opened, and the god started guiltily, withdrawing back into his corner. A doctor entered with a benign smile plastered in place.

“Well, Mr…” he flicked a few pages “…Mitchell, it looks like you’re good to go. You don’t seem to have a concussion, so we’re free to let you leave. It might be best if you have someone to stay with you tonight, just in case of any complications. Other than that, ibruprofen should be fine. Your bruises aren’t too bad.” The doctor hesitated. “Your paperwork says that you’re from the UK. You do have somewhere to stay, right?”

Mitchell floundered. Yeah, he had a room in a hotel, but was that medically acceptable? Before he could answer, a voice cut him off.

“He’s staying with me. I’ll look after him.”

“Well that all seems fine,” the doctor said, beaming. “You’re medically legal, so there’s no extra paperwork other than that which your friend here has already filled out. Thank you for using our services, I hope that they were satisfactory, and if you do have any other problems, don’t hesitate to come back.”

Mitchell swung himself out of bed and started to dress. Anders tossed Mitchell his jacket. “Thank god for NZ healthcare,” he said, smiling. “If this was America, I’d be leaving you to rot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, he'd probably be hurt way worse after being ht by a car. I'm just going for vampire strength and a slow car speed. I needed to get on, and besides - I'll be hurting them both later. Why cause them pain now when I can cause so much more later?
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. Please leave a review and/or kudos to let me know! I'll try get the next one up as fast as I can.


	3. Routine Bacon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha ha ha. ‘As fast as I can’ she says. Even Atlantis came back before I did. 
> 
> I have various excuses, but it basically boils down to losing everything when my laptop died, and then never restarting. My first AS is on Thursday, so I’m going to write this now because priorities. Luckily, I wrote down my ideas for GG and half of the third one – containing brilliant lines such as ‘they get out of there like Ross Kemp does – fast’ – on paper, so that’s still alive and kicking. So we’ll see what happens here. It's weirdly happy, I think.
> 
> I am very, very sorry.

The creak of the sofa springs underneath him almost drowned out the sounds of clashing pans and the muffled ‘oh fuck’ from the kitchen.

Mitchell groaned and opened his eyes. It had been three weeks since Anders had brought him home, and for the past four days, he’d been sleeping on the sofa after pronouncing himself fully recovered. When the god had brought him home, Anders’d insisted on Mitchell taking the bed, but after a fortnight of moping, he’d decided that enough was enough and that it was time to stop monopolising the bed. He was kind of regretting giving up the feather pillows and soft mattress, though – Anders had a comfy sofa, but after half a week, the novelty was wearing off. As comfy as the cushions were, blankets and an armrest didn’t quite compare. Sitting up, he ran a hand through his hair, shaking out the curls along with the cobwebs from his head before stumbling into the kitchen.

“Look who’s back to the land of the living!” Anders cried, plating up a bacon butty and handing it to the vampire, greasy, crispy round the edges, and slathered in ketchup. Perfect. “Or is that land of the unliving? Alive-again? Undead? I never know. What’s the politically correct way to address a vampire?”

“Fuck off.” Mitchell answered, grabbing the sandwich and tucking into it eagerly, moaning at the taste. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anders flush oddly and turn away. Turning his concentration back to the bite of heaven in his hand, he asked “So what’s the plan for today?” clearing his throat. He grabbed the newspaper and opened it to the vacancy pages, circling a few good jobs. He'd dropped his CV off at the hospital earlier in the week, but there was no harm in making back up plans.

“I’ve got to go into the office to talk to some vodka company,” said Anders, dumping the grill in the sink and turning away, “but I’ll just Bragi the shit out of them and leave the rest to Dawn, I think. Get back here for lunch and leave the rest to her. We've not got much going on anyway."

“One day,” Mitchell replied, swallowing, “something’s going to go wrong and you’ll be stuck without him. Imagine how shit a PR guy you’d be then.” He brushed a crumb of the table, licking it absentmindedly off his thumb before turning the page, greasy fingerprints staining the paper.

“Oy – I object to that” said Anders, brandishing a sponge, “I built that company up from the bottom without any godly intervention. He only dossed up when I turned twenty one. I had a good few years before that.” He swallowed and looked down. “Mike and the dick parade might think that I’m totally useless without the god of do-what-the-fuck-I-want, but I’m not half bad at my job.”

Mitchell grimaced as Anders turned back to the sink. He had yet to meet the family, but from the state Anders had been in when they’d met and the choice comments that the god kept making, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Dismissing the gloomy thoughts, he shook his head and smiled. He loved the routine they had going – it was easy and comfortable, and they’d fallen into it after only a couple of days, like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. Anders would wake up, walk down the street to get a newspaper, make whatever breakfast took his fancy that day, and magic up a cup of coffee and a pot of the best tea imaginable (not that he’d ever tell Annie, but it was a hell of a sight better than her PG tips. After that many years, he’d developed a bit of a tea snobbery and a liking for Earl Grey).  Then Mitchell would hunt for jobs whilst Anders washed up, Mitchell would dry whilst Anders fed the fish, and then Anders would go to work. It was comfortable, it was normal, and Mitchell found himself liking it. He found himself liking it a lot.

* * *

“Anders, what’s going on with you?”

Anders looked up from the advertising campaign he was busy planning to where Dawn stood, arms crossed. “Hmm?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, Anders Johnson.” Dawn said, lips tight and foot tapping. “I know something’s changed. You come to work on time. You come to work not smelling of alcohol. You actually come to work.” She reeled off, emphasising the point with her fingers. “Not to mention the healthy lunches you keep bringing with you. Hell, you’re actually eating and that’s surprising enough.”

Anders stared at her, mouth open. “What, so I get myself together,” he protested, pulling his wits back “and that means there’s something wrong with me?”

“But it’s not just that,” Dawn protested, “I mean, it’s not that at all.” she flustered, “You look happy. Content. Kind of … glowing.”

“Fuck Dawn, I’m not a pregnant woman!” Anders blustered, blushing. “And for all that it’s your business, there’s nothing up with me – wrong or otherwise.” He stood, collecting the papers together and shuffling them into a pile. Searching for a subject to distract her from his life and the vampire in it, he asked. “Why’s it your business what I do in my free time anyway? Ty’s not being a very good boyfriend if you’ve got time to be concentrating on my life. He should be fucking your brains out at every chance he gets. Maybe that’ll distract you.”

“Anders!” Dawn complained, smacking him with a folder “Stop detracting from the question. Come one – you’re even being healthy now. Or, well, healthier at least.” She said in answer to his cocked eyebrow. “You know what I mean,” she said, deflating. “And you know that I just want you to be happy.”

“Yeah, whatever. You act all cute and innocent, but I know what you’re really like. Just remember Dawnie – curiosity killed that cat and I make no promises about satisfaction bringing it back.” He stopped and looked at her shrewdly. “You’d be perfect for the Spanish inquisition, you know? Because no one ever expects it. Not from you and that goody-two shoes act you’ve got going.” Anders grabbed his coat, stuffing the files in his bag and retreating quickly. “Anyway, I’ve got a thing. So…” he said, walking backwards through the doors, waving goodbye as he practically fled the scene.

“But Anders – Anders! I need you to sign-” Dawn shouted at the closing door. Deflating, she walked back over to her desk, collapsing in the chair and pulling her laptop toward her. Anders was acting weirdly, and she was going to figure out why if it was last thing she did. Curiosity had always been her downfall, but she just couldn’t let this one go.  She stabbed moodily at the keys, rethinking the previous conversation in her head. He was definitely acting weirdly lately, but good weird. Happy weird. Not angst-covered-up-by-innuendo Anders, but happy, light Anders. And then that retreat when she’d asked him why. What was he covering up?

Besides, since when did Anders blush?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Dawn the Detective puts together a few mysteries. 
> 
> (Are Ty and Dawn even together yet? I don't know. But they're an adorable couple who bake naked cupcakes together so yes, yes they are and the whole freezing Ty angst thing never happened.)
> 
> I'm making no promises about when the next chapter'll be up, but it shouldn't be too long.


End file.
